to clinch a lifetime's argument
by irnan
Summary: Luke has an announcement to make.  ::fluffy two-shot marking what I suspect is the chronological end of the swallows and amazons verse.::
1. to clinch a lifetime's argument

_this is a disclaimer._

_**AN:** part of the **swallows and amazons verse.**_

**to clinch a lifetime's argument**

In ten years' time, they're going to joke about the future of the Jedi Order having been decided in the Skywalkers' living room on a rainy weekend.

The light is dim and the rain patters against the windows in a steady rhythm; the apartment smells of caf and woodsmoke from the fireplace Mara had installed almost the second she and Luke were married. Not long after Ben was born they knocked down the wall to the apartment next door and expanded their living space by quite a lot, but it's still crowded in here, and as always when it comes home to him just how big his family is, Luke the orphaned farmboy takes a moment to marvel, and to smile to himself.

Jysella is perched on Ben's lap in the armchair, their linked hands resting on the swell of her belly. It's a boy.

Threepio in the kitchen, remonstrating with Anakin's twins: "Mistress Jessa, in all the years since the births of your Aunt and Uncle, chocolate cake has never been considered suitable for a midday meal in this family!"

Ripple of laughter in the living room: it is if Han's in charge of the proceedings.

Laina, born diplomat, opens the negotiations by clearing her throat. "Everybody got caf?"

"Thank you, Lane, yes," Tenel Ka says, smoothly picking up her cue. "I understand, Luke, we're here to discuss your retirement?"

(Married to Jacen for nearly twenty years and she still trips over using her in-laws' first names. The formality of the Hapan court can do that to you.)

Luke's the only one still standing. "Not so much my retirement as the consequences thereof. One way or the other, I am stepping down as Grand Master."

Nods. No one makes a move to interrupt (yet).

Luke sighs. "To be honest I would have preferred to have this discussion in public, but Leia insisted on a family conference first; against all her democratic instincts, I'm sure..."

His sister sighs right back, mock-exasperated at her brother's mild teasing. "I've said it before and I'll say it again. This Order is less than fifty years old. There's not a single Jedi on Yavin or off who doubts that you'll stay on at the Academy and continue to teach, Luke, or that you'll still be on the Master's Council. But you can't underestimate the impact of your decision. It's not just about who takes your place; it's about how we make that decision and deal with the transition. This family needs to be a stabilising influence on the Order in that time; they need to know where each and every one of us stands. They don't need a united front from us, but they do need certainty. Watching us hash this issue out in public will not help."

"I agree, Dad," Lane says.

"You're disqualified by virtue of having been taught all she knows," Luke says to her, jerking his head at Leia, and Lane laughs at him.

"Well, suit yourself," Corran says. "_I_ agree. I know you don't like people thinking of this place as a Skywalker family project, Luke, but don't go too far the other way and ignore just how much people think of you and your family as being a more stable part of this Order than the Temple we're teaching in."

Luke twists his mouth, sips his caf. "If we're all agreed on that, then?"

"Makes sense to me," Jaina says, implicitly speaking for all the kids just because she's Jaina.

(Colonel Jaina Solo Fel of New Republic Starfighter Command knows all about the importance of knowing where your leaders stand in times of crises.)

Knowing they're all agreed on this makes Luke unaccountably nervous all of a sudden. He looks round at their faces: Han, silent and thoughtful; Corran and Mirax, expectant; the kids, calm and quiet. It's uncanny sometimes how deep the bonds between them run, how close they are, how attuned to one another.

Mara, watching him back. She tips her caf mug at him, tilts her mouth in a half-smile. (I dare you, farmboy.)

"At the next meeting of the Master's Council I'm going to announce my intention of stepping down as Grand Master of the Order," he tells her. "It's time. I've guided this Order long enough. I won't become Yoda, mistaking stagnation for continuity. I think my last act as Grand Master will be to push for the position to rotate on a regular basis: every decade, for example. Whether by election or appointment or what I don't know, but there needs to be a chance for change on a regular basis."

Mara's smile widens.

"Also, there's the grandkid," Luke adds, deadpan. "I'm not having Corran monopolise him."

Everyone laughs, any lingering tension gone. Jaina taps her finger against her caf mug; her other hand is resting on Jag's thigh. He's watching Luke with cool green eyes.

"What sort of change are you thinking of?" he asks.

(Good question.)

Luke nods at him. "Any kind there needs to be," he says.

Anakin, contemptuous: "Jedi Master answer."

Pause. (Luke's not good at this: this revealing of himself. His walls are high and strong, multi-layered, and since Endor the only outsider to bypass them all has been Mara.)

"Stability, perhaps," Luke says at last. "A period of peace, during which we can... settle in. Put down deeper roots, decide the direction of the Order, what works for us and what doesn't."

Anakin again, sharply questioning as always: "You don't feel you've been doing that?"

Luke's boot heel, scuffing back and forth, catches against the edge of the rug. He knocks against it lightly. "Yes and no. I'm a fighter, Nik. I've fought for everything I've ever had. I've fought in the name of vengeance, and of a dead Republic; I've fought for my friends most of all. I fought for my sister, and I fought my father for himself. I fought to found this Order and I fought to keep it, to pass on what I had learned and to bring back a light into the galaxy when it needed one."

They're silent, watching him: guilty too often of forgetting that Luke, too, was a soldier once.

"I've fought for long enough, I think," Luke says quietly. "Choose who you will, Nik. But it needs to be someone who can look at that uniform" – he points at Jag – "and not see the shadow of the Death Star hanging over every move the Imperials make."

Silence still.

(Perhaps too much of himself revealed. They see the compassion and the peace process and the man who went to Vader at Endor to bring him back to himself; they don't see the nightmares that lingered too long, the scars that went too deep, the boy who stood before the burnt-out ruins of his home and locked his ability to mourn for his family away inside himself in order to finish the job he knew he had to do.

They don't see the way the duel with Vader disintegrated at the end, how Luke drove his father to his knees by using his lightsabre more like an axe than a Jedi's weapon, elegance gone, all training forgotten, raining mindless savage blows on the thing he couldn't hate.)

"I hadn't known," Jag says.

"Even sometimes is too much," Luke says.

Jag nods, understanding. (He's a smart kid, quick as Jaina but steadier with it. They match each other well.)

Maira, speaking for the first time: "How do you suggest we decide your successor?"

"I don't," Luke says, and holds up a hand when his sharp-tempered daughter makes to object. "No, May, I think that's important. It was Mara's idea, and I agree with her: I shouldn't suggest even the process of choosing my successor. No preferences stated. No hints, no nudges, no grooming of anyone to take my place. Clean break."

May shakes her head, firelight catching on her gold earrings. "Don't take this too far the other way, Dad. Remember Yoda was nine hundred years old; that's not a problem that's going to face any of us."

"Human life expectancy is just over a century," Luke says. "Jedi life expectancy could well be a good thirty years longer. That's a hundred years of me influencing this Order."

"You still think that's too long?"

"Yes."

May nods. "I don't know if I agree with you, though."

"I'm flattered."

Tahiri clears her throat. "You know, as the resident family historian, I think I agree with Luke. We've always said the worst mistake the old Order made was allowing the Council to choose its own members, yes? I'd argue this is a part of that: how much say the Grand Master has in the matter of his successor."

May, impatience banked (she's always struggled with it more than Ben and Lane): "And how do we make that kind of change without completely destabilising the Order every time a Grand Master steps down?"

"Include as many people as possible in the decision-making," Ben says.

"I won't have election campaigns held within this Order," Leia says sharply. "That would destroy us."

"I'm not talking about campaigns," Ben says. "I mean a kind of... grand convention, where everyone who's ever passed through this Academy comes together and decides on a list of nominees."

"Your basic direct democracy," Lane says.

"That might work," Leia says, considering. "We'd need someone to have the last word."

"Following Uncle Luke's logic, it shouldn't be the Master's Council," Jaina says.

"It would have to be," Valin objects. "Who else is qualified to decide if any of the candidates are even equipped for the position?"

"What about the Master's Council in conjunction with others?" Ben says. "A delegation from the Senate, and the Imperials, and Hapes, for example."

"I'm not turning this Order into a political instrument," Luke says.

"No, but Ben has a point," Mara says, leaning forwards. "You've worked hard to keep us independent from the Senate, to take in students from the Empire as well as the Republic: this could be it, Luke, final proof of the Jedi Order as independent from any one single government."

"Governments tend to have agendas other than the good of the Jedi Order –"

"I think we need outsiders to be involved, though," Jysella says. "People like Mom, and Han, and Jag; and Reb, May. Or people like Wedge, Talon Karrde, people the Order trust. It'd help avoid the isolationism of the old Order."

"Sella's right, we can't get too involved in our own problems."

"But we'd still be talking about opening the Order to the influences of others – don't forget that without the old Order's close ties to the Senate a lot of things might have been different!"

"But they might not have. Are we guarding against another Palpatine or are we trying to find a way to allow the Order to move forwards independently of the actions of a single Grand Master?"

Luke tucks his thumbs into his belt and watches them argue with a warm glow building in his stomach: what he wanted this, ideas the old Order would never have contemplated. Openness and innovation.

(Remembers still the instinctive recoiling of a twenty-two year old boy from the idea of thousands of years of changelessness, Yoda's sorrow, his conflict that Luke only glimpsed, as deep as Vader's own.

_But, Master, surely there's a difference between remembering and respecting the past and clinging on to it with both hands._

_Perhaps. Perhaps see that difference too late I did. But still, a search for alternatives, not easy it is._

The important thing, Luke wants to tell him across the gulf of fifty years, is that a search takes place.)

Anakin stands up with lazy grace, swinging his empty caf mug by the handle: "I think we're going to need more of this."

"Good idea," Luke agrees. His youngest nephew is smiling at him, strange little smile, secretive.

"You know who I'm going to nominate, don't you," he says.

Luke grins a bit, two pairs of blue eyes focussing on Jacen: animated gestures, quick smile, ability to talk himself out of any kind of trouble inherited from both his parents, even now shooting down every one of Valin's arguments with gentle ease.

"Yes," he says. "I think I do."

Han follows the direction of his gaze, catches his eye. He and Chewie both silent for most of the morning; Luke hasn't been entirely sure why, but now he thinks he is: Han, damn him, knows him too well, can predict him too accurately.

He glares. Han grins back.

(They don't need words for this.)


	2. authority's end

_this is a disclaimer._

_**AN:** part of the **swallows and amazons verse.**_

**_(what grace has given me)_**

"You and Luke looked like you were up to something, this morning," Dad says.

"Dunno what you're talking about," Anakin says lazily, and then grins at him.

Dad rolls his eyes. "Like I don't know the pair of you better than that."

Anakin sighs. "Yeah."

Comfortable silence on the balcony for a while. The sun came out in the afternoon, turning the clouds redgold and sending light skipping through the raindrops: nothing but typical Yavin winter weather. Nevertheless, the sight of it opens a bubble of warmth and laughter in Anakin's chest.

In the west, hovering over the jungle beyond the herb gardens, a rainbow is forming.

"You could have it if you wanted it," Dad says.

So that's what this is about.

Anakin smiles. "I know," he says. "And maybe there's a part of me that does want it. But..." he pauses, finds himself struggling for words. "It's like Uncle Luke said this morning. I'm a fighter, Dad. Like you, like him. Jaya and I both are, but Jacen..."

"If you're about to tell me that he's not a fighter because he's more like your Mom I might laugh you out of this apartment," Dad says, amused.

Anakin shakes his head. Tell the truth he has a hard time picturing either of his parents as fighters, regardless of the stories. In all of his memories there's something settled about them, heavy in a way, as if they've both been held down and steadied by the weight of their own happiness. A weight of contentment; a good weight, then, like the weight of his daughters asleep on his chest or his son clinging piggy-back to his shoulders or Tahiri's leg flung across his thighs.

Like sunshine in late evening: warm, golden, sliding slow and thick as honey over the world, and when it touches you it makes you smile and when it's gone you can't miss it, because tomorrow you'll see it all again.

That is what his parents are. That's what he wants for himself – for all his family.

"Jacen's got something," he says. "Gravitas." He grins again. "Maybe it just comes from having kids earlier than the rest of us."

Dad laughs.

"But he's got something," Anakin repeats.

"You're stronger than either of 'em in the Force," Dad points out.

Anakin waves the tumbler in his right hand dismissively. "By accident of birth. Midichlorian counts aren't everything. There's knowledge, too – knowledge worked for, hard-won. Jacen's got that. Where I match him, I match him because it's my nature."

Dad considers this for a minute. "It doesn't make you less," he says at last.

"No," Anakin agrees instantly. "I mean. It used to bother me, when I was younger. It felt like I was cheating my way into something the twins had had to work for."

"But not anymore?"

"It doesn't make me less, Dad. I just think that – maybe it makes Jacen more, in some ways."

"I think that might make more sense if you'd had less whiskey, kid."

Anakin can't help but smirk. "Or maybe it won't till we've both had more."

Dad holds out his empty glass with an answering grin. "Well, go do the honours then."

* * *

**authority's end**

They hold a convention, as Ben suggested, and the New Jedi Order fills the Great Hall much as the Rebel Alliance once did, although with more shouting and a lot less decorum.

Luke stands off to one side and watches the debate in silence, trying and failing to keep a faint smile off his face. Mara is arguing with Kyle; Leia is waiting with a politician's patience for Kenth Hamner to make his point, and then she'll tear him apart; the kids are scattered throughout the Hall, going from one group of debating Jedi to the next, persuading, being persuaded, discussing, arguing. Every new idea is noted down; every objection is remembered.

There's a step on the stairs behind him, and then: a presence Luke has felt more than once over the years, in brief flickers and flashes that blaze up and die down quickly like a lantern-light being hidden in a dark night, but never before in full.

Not since Endor.

He can't turn round.

If he turns round, it's over.

"Very impressive," Father says, gentle mockery, but of himself not Luke.

"Full of surprises," Luke says, swallowing hard.

Father laughs, and the sound makes something coiled tight in Luke's chest unwind: the first time in his life that he hears his father's laugh. "Not really. I knew you could do it."

Luke bites down on his bottom lip. "Do what?"

He thinks Father shrugs. "This."

"You're being cryptic."

"Am I?"

"Cryin' out loud," Luke says, exasperated. "You know what? I think you enjoy this. Hanging around pulling the mystic dead Jedi card – it reminds me disturbingly of Obi-Wan."

"Oh, now, that _was_ a low blow."

"Father!"

"Luke," Father says, wealth of satisfaction in the way he says his son's name, infinite pride in his Force presence, and Luke knows he and Leia are the cause of it.

He tries a different tactic. "I suppose you're here to keep an eye on the proceedings? Wouldn't want your grand plan going wrong."

Sigh. "I take it my namesake has been expounding on his crazy theories."

"I eavesdropped," Luke admits, and feels a satisfaction of his own when the confession makes Father laugh a second time.

"Good for you. They're a secretive lot."

"Part of the fun."

"Hmm."

"Are they accurate? Anakin's theories, I mean."

Father pauses. "Yeeee-eeess," he says. "For the most part, at least. It's slightly more complicated than that."

Luke turns round.

Presumably Father, being who – _what_ – he is, can look like whatever he wants to look like; the last time Luke saw his image, he wore Jedi robes, but this version of Father is in a loose black tunic and dark brown pants, and there's nothing very Jedi-like about him at all. Mischievous, possibly. Sneaky, underhanded, secretive. And something about his hands that makes Luke think of back-breaking labour and Tatooine sun.

But definitely not Jedi-like.

And for whatever reason, he still has that vivid sabre-scar above his right eye.

"While you were alive," Luke says, and then stops, because the sentence is so very absurd and the question is even worse.

"You can't pour six litres of water into a jug designed for two," Father says.

"Sounds like something Yoda would say."

"Before or after he pokes at you with a walking-stick?"

Luke barks a laugh. They smile at each other.

Out in the Hall, there's a brief commotion; Ben has leapt to the top of the steps. Ever so slightly to the right, and he'll be standing in the same spot Han once did.

"Ladies and gentlebeings," he shouts. "We've been at this for hours now, and I don't know about you, but I'm gettin' hungry" – ripple of laughter – "so I'm gonna cut to the chase. I'd like to put forward the name of Jacen Solo as nominated for the position of next Grand Master of the Jedi Order."

"What!" Jacen yells. "Ben, get down from there, you idiot!"

"Stole my thunder, Benji," Anakin laughs. "Seconded!"

Jacen rounds on him. "Why you –"

The shouting starts up again. Ben glances over at Luke with a grin; it falls away from him, surprised, when he sees Father, and then comes back wider than before.

"Sound about right?" Luke asks.

"Oh," Father says. "It'll do."

And then, ridiculously cheerful, "I'll see you when the baby's born, then."

"No more skulking?" Luke asks bluntly.

Father purses his lips. "There are rules to this," he says. "It's one thing to watch over the kids; it's another to interfere in what you and Leia had to do."

Makes sense, Luke supposes. "And now it's accomplished?"

Father smiles again. "I'll see you when the baby's born," he repeats.

And with that Luke has to content himself.

He finds he doesn't mind too much.

* * *

**(_well, I'm back, he said_)**

This, then, is redemption.

A tiny squalling bundle in a blanket, red-faced, red-haired. Not the first great-grandchild, nor the last: but the first to share his name.

Ben sprawled exhausted in a seat by the crib, too tired to smile but his eyes lit up with joy. Luke stands by him, equally tired, lines of worry etched in his face. Jysella's labour was uncomplicated but long, and the memory of how difficult it was for Mara with Ben still sits deep in Luke's bones.

Anakin lays a hand on the baby's chest, gentle, feeling heartbeat and the delicate rise and fall of that tiny ribcage. No different to any other of his descendents when they first entered the world and unique as they all were and are unique.

And now, too: with Luke stepped down and Jacen in his seat as Grand Master of the Order, there is a circle completed. Proof of the viability of the New Jedi Way; proof of its durability, too.

Proof of balance.

This little one will know peace.

"We're naming him Corran," Ben says, yawning.

"Corran Skywalker," Anakin says. The baby blinks at him sleepily. "Welcome to the world, Cor." He smiles. "I think you're going to like it."

Nonsense words, pointless rambles. There should be fireworks; there should be celebrations all across the galaxy for this most ordinary of miracles.

Leia's leaning in the doorway, watching them: looks more like her mother than ever. Anakin tilts his head and watches the threads of light spinning gossamer-steel bonds between Cor and his family, tying them together, their circle opening for him, drawing him in, weaving itself around him.

Luke comes to stand beside him, arms crossed over his chest. Anakin can't stop smiling. Probably looks like an idiot. Any second now Leia will tell him so.

Ben's fallen asleep, one hand resting on the side of his son's crib. Leia drapes a blanket over him and bumps her brother's shoulder with her own; he wraps his arm around her.

Cor gazes up at them for another moment, and then applies his attention to sucking his thumb.

They all three reach for his dummy simultaneously.


End file.
